


Blood and Ink

by Edonohana



Category: Westmark - Lloyd Alexander
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edonohana/pseuds/Edonohana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always another battle to be fought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Ink

"Florian?"

Stock snatched the notebook from Theo's hand. "Have you seen these?"

Theo would have snatched it back, but Florian's quick glance had already taken it in. Theo glumly lowered his gaze to his soup and tried not to listen to the rustle of turning pages.

"That one is a trifle- no, a great deal lacking in accuracy," remarked Stock. "But the others-"

Theo didn't have to see the page to know which one it was: the sketch he'd made as he perched on a wall and looked down at the drowsing Stock- an angle which emphasized the poet's ample belly and less than ample hair.

Zara peered over Florian's shoulder. "Nonsense, Stock, it's you to the life. All it's missing is the type promoting hair tonic- and another picture of the fine crop you'll have after it's applied."

"Florian could be the model for that one," suggested Luther, to general laughter.

"Our russet divinity is a source of inspiration, as always." For once, Florian's tone was not ironic. He rapidly flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for, then turned the book toward Theo.

Theo examined the sketch. It was unshaded and very rough; he had been trying to learn which lines were essential, and which were elaboration on a point already made. The figure was little more than an outline, but his posture conveyed unshakable certainty, his eyes and whipping hair suggested charisma and beauty, and the set of his mouth promised that he would be a dangerous man to have as an enemy.

"It looks more like Justin than Justin does," said Zara thoughtfully.

Justin eyed the sketch dubiously.

"It's beautiful," murmured Rina.

"A nice little talent," Justin said generously to Theo. "I didn't know you'd been studying me."

"Could you do something in that vein, but of Cabbarus?" asked Florian. "Just a few lines, but enough to identify him- and show everyone the truth about him?"

Theo immediately saw how it could be done: the tyrant's deep-set eyes and close-trimmed hair already suggested a skull. All Theo needed to do was slightly exaggerate the thinness of the lips, and the resemblance would be unmistakable. Taking back the notebook, he rapidly sketched the chief minister in that style, and added a fleshless hand clutching a hangman's noose.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Stock. "I believe the muse has begun to visit you. I only hope she won't take too much time away from me."

"I know a man who can make this into a woodcut," said Florian. "Imagine that death's head grinning down from every wall in Westmark. May I?"

Theo tore out the page and handed it to him. Florian carefully tucked it away.

"Be kind to your muse, youngster." Florian's smile that encompassed both Theo and Stock. "She's been kind to you. This may be more valuable to our cause than a wagon full of muskets."

"It's only ink on paper," said Justin.

"So is a constitution," said Florian.

  


"Colonel Kestrel?"

Theo didn't know the name of the woman who spoke to him, though he vaguely recalled that she had joined a week or so ago, after the Regians had torched her village. She might have been a baker or a woodcutter-her arms bulged with muscle- but none of the new recruits talked about their old lives.

He didn't know the name of the boy she knelt beside either, though he thought they might have come in together. Theo glanced around: the Regian soldiers were all dead, and his men were busy loading their supplies. He had a few moments to spare.

Theo squatted down next to the boy. Cold mud oozed through the holes in his boots. The boy was curled up, sobbing, one hand scrabbling through a drift of dead leaves as if he'd lost something precious there. His shirt was so soaked in blood that Theo couldn't see where he was wounded, so he took out his knife to cut it open. The boy's eyes went wide with terror.

"Don't be frightened," said the woman. "It's the Colonel. He's trying to help you."

The boy had taken a musket ball in the belly. No point bringing him back to camp: he couldn't live more than a day or so, and the space he'd take up across a saddle would be more usefully occupied by a sack of grain. But if they left him here, another Regian column might find and question him.

"It hurts," the boy gasped.

There was a streak of blood across his cheek, though his face was unmarred; that was the way of blood, to get everywhere once it left the body. But the smear of red across white reminded Theo of the wound Justin had taken at Nierkeeping, and of what Las Bombas had done to quiet him afterward.

"Breathe deep," said Theo. He laid down his palm on the boy's chest. "Here, make my hand move."

"I can't."

"Close your eyes. Now breathe."

Obediently, the boy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. With his free hand, Theo quietly eased his own pistol from his belt.

"That's good. Now another. Keep your eyes closed."

The boy inhaled. Theo fired.

For an instant, Theo thought that he had missed, but the boy was silent; it was the woman who was sobbing.

  


"Mickle."

Theo sat on the edge of the bed, his hands at his sides. They both knew better than to shake the other awake.

"Theo." Mickle pushed her hair out of her eyes. "Did I wake you up?"

"No, I woke you up." He smiled, but it faded quickly. "I dreamed I was back in Westmark. It was after the revolution, but Justin was there. He was shouting at me. I can't remember why."

"I was dreaming too. About tomorrow."

"You were dreaming about today," said Theo. "It's almost dawn."

Mickle was silent.

Theo asked, "What happened in your dream?"

"We were all marching toward the Sultan's palace with our list of demands. Well, I was marching; you weren't there." She remembered then why Theo hadn't been with her: in her dream-memory, he'd been killed at Marianstat, taking a bullet meant for Justin. She shivered, and pulled the quilt up to her chin.

"Florian was there. His coat was all faded. He said you couldn't have a revolution without shedding blood; he said Ankar would get its republic, but it would have to pay the price. I said, 'If that's what you think, then why are you here?' He said, 'Why are you here?' And then there was something about a man selling sausages. I don't remember the rest."

"Dreaming about sausages is a good omen," Theo said solemnly. "It means success in all endeavors."

"What, really?"

Theo laughed. "No. Well, maybe; I've never made a study of the meaning of sausages in dreams."

A thin whistle shrilled out, and they followed it into the kitchen. Theo poured the tea from the squealing kettle into two earthenware mugs. Mickle cupped hers between her hands and waited for it to cool. The air was chilly, and the light from the window was gray.

Theo didn't mention his dream again, but he seemed intrigued by hers. "Do you think there's any chance Florian really might show up?"

Mickle reluctantly shook her head. "He can pressure the Sultan to deal with us peacefully. That's expected: the people of Ankar want a republic, naturally Westmark will sympathize. But if he came in person, it might look like he masterminded the whole thing for some political purpose of his own. And I don't know what would be worse, if the Sultan thought that or if the people did."

"The people, maybe. Ankar's a tinderbox," said Theo. "I kept waking up and thinking, 'All it'll take is for one person to throw one rock, and then the Sultan's soldiers will open fire on us, and our peaceful march will turn into a bloodbath, and it'll be the battle of Marianstat all over again.' And then we have to decide again what we're willing to do. What we're willing to become."

"There's one difference," said Mickle. "This time no one's deliberately trying for the bloodbath."

A voice spoke from somewhere around Theo's feet, in the peevish drawl of a spoiled child. "You have to come home tonight and feed me and pet me and let me bite your toes. That's the important thing, so mind you don't do anything glorious and heroic."

Theo stared down in astonishment at their ginger kitten (which promptly bit his big toe), then burst out laughing.

"It's been so long since you've done that, Mickle. I would have thought you'd gotten out of practice."

"Not a bit," replied the teakettle in a shrill whistling voice. "I practice in between revolutions. A republic has no place for a queen, but there's always demand for an Oracle Priestess. Now drink your tea before it gets cold."

Theo smiled. "You'll have to teach me some time."

"Later."

"After the revolution?"

"After we finish our tea." She took her first sip of it. "This is new."

"One of the section leaders gave it to me. She blended it herself, from herbs in her garden. Honey?" Theo offered her the pot.

She took another sip, then shook her head. "I think I like it bittersweet."

Mickle pulled her stool toward his, so they sat shoulder to shoulder. Together, they drank their tea, and waited for the dawn to break.


End file.
